


Harsh Sunlight

by Ashfen



Series: A Decade of Love [3]
Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Suicide, Gen, Nick just wants to die, Other, attempted overdose, before the reunion, does. Does Nick not know what it means to be queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfen/pseuds/Ashfen
Summary: The year is 1924. Nick is taking his final day of life, and imparts some wisdom to the younger generation.
Relationships: Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Series: A Decade of Love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537345
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	Harsh Sunlight

Harsh sunlight. His eyes barely opened. The world around him was grey. His last day of living. The only man he had ever cared about was long dead. There was nothing more he could do. Everything was hopeless. He'd sold the cottage to try and escape Gatsby, to try and start again. An apartment. It had seemed cozy enough when the landlord showed it to him.  
It wasn't. Dull beige walls and cold hardwood floors made it feel like a coffin. Blinding white sun came through every window. Why had he moved here? At least in the cottage he could go inside the mansion and just reminisce. Reminisce, and miss him.  
There wasn't time to miss anyone anymore now. His publishers had called, and he knew exactly why. His manuscript. It had been listed as something that would be finished by late November. It was March, and he hadn't even managed to near the halfway mark. He knew what was coming.

Three men at a desk. Two on one side, wearing neatly fixed suits. Nick sat on the other, disheveled and stone-faced. Tired.  
"Five months, Mr. Carraway. We pushed your deadline ahead by three months already, and yet you _still_ come here five months late with nothing usable."  
"I understand, Mr. Price."  
"We picked you up because of _The Great Gatsby_ , but I suppose that was a fluke."  
"You're probably right Baker."  
The two men, Mr. Price and Mr. Baker - no relation to a Ms. Jordan Baker - nodded. They might as well have been finishing each other's sentences.

"You understand the position you've put us in, correct?"  
"I do."  
"Then there's nothing left to be said I believe?"  
The two on the other end looked to each other, and they shook their heads before turning back to the man before them. He didn't respond. The pair rose from their seats to show him out.  
"You've lost weight, Mr. Carraway; be sure to take care of yourself."  
 _As if he cared._  
"I will Mr. Price."  
"Be seeing you Mr. Carraway."  
 _Liar._  
"You too Mr. Baker."  
He'd never been more content to leave a place in his life.

A ride to west egg. Everything seemed grey. Passing through the city itself made him feel sick. He _was_ sick within minutes of exiting the trolley. Why had he come back? Why was he putting himself through this?  
He just needed to see. To see that empty mansion one more time, to go through each room and rid himself of that damned spectre of a man named Jay Gatsby. He recomposed himself. Hailed a driver. They sat in silence for most of the ride, until the mansion came into view.

"Don't see many folks your age going up there anymore. It's all young folk now, looking to scrounge whatever's left of the place."  
He felt sick again. What had they done since he'd left? While he was still there they'd left the mansion alone, in part due to his presence; he'd chased away more than a few would-be looters.  
"Gatsby had been… A friend. I missed the funeral, so I'm paying my respects now."  
"Why not at his grave?"  
"His father took the body. His grave is with them."  
"Really? People've claimed to see his ghost around there still."  
"His ghost?"  
"That's right. A young man; younger than Mr. Gatsby had been, but apparently he won't say a word to anyone. All who see him say he's normally staring out across the water, like he's looking for something."

Nick scoffed to himself as they came to a stop at the gates. "The fool is probably still chasing after that green light."  
"Pardon?"  
"Nothing. Thank you for the ride."  
"It's no trouble at all. But you be careful sir: I'd feel terrible if that ghost were to get you!"  
He stepped out of the car with a tired smile to the driver, just large enough to make sure that the man would hopefully feel satisfied in some way. He did, it seemed, for he cranked the window back up and drove off once the door was shut.

The mansion beyond the gates looked absolutely miserable, with grounds unkempt and hectic. Vines of ivy snuck into the dark rooms through broken windows, and in one he saw a flash of green.  
 _It couldn't be._  
He was already dashing across the lawn, desperate for even just the slightest chance that it was him.  
The front doors were held shut by a wood bar and a rusting chain, the window next to it fully picked of all glass. It seemed to be the new entryway.

The inside was worse than the outside as he ran through the rooms in search of the spectre, cursing people's love of destroying and robbing others' things. Through the main hall, he ran past the shattered chandelier. A piano was upturned in the next room - where had Klipspringer gone after everything? No one had heard from him.  
Jay's bedroom. All that was left was the mattress on the bed frame, and a study turned to hell.  
Emotion began to bubble inside of him. All remnants of this man were gone, picked away. As he let out a shuddering breath, Nick saw that green again in the corner of his eyes. Whirling around, he saw the back of someone in a green suit staring out across the water. Someone with light brown hair.  
Someone with _too curly_ light brown hair.  
"Who are you?"

The owner of the head of hair flinched, turning their face to him. Bright eyes met his, youth sparkling in their blue. They had to be no older than 20. The youth cleared their throat and straightened to wipe away their surprise.  
"You may call me Hamlet."  
"Hamlet? The prince of Denmark?"  
Their eyes lit up and a grin chanced their face. Clearly no one else had suggested it yet.  
"The very same, though I shall be the royalty of New York!"  
His expression fell. Of course someone like that would be there.  
"You're standing in the court of a man who tried and failed to be king. Learn from his mistakes and don't bother."  
Hamlet huffed and placed hands on their hips.  
"I'm well aware of what happened to Mr. Gatsby! You'd do well to not recite whatever distorted version of the story you heard, for I've read one Mr. Nick Carraway's recount of the events, and it's the only version with nothing but explicit truth."

His eyes widened as he listened to the youth. They'd read his book?  
"Er. Who are you, anyway?"  
"One Mr. Nick Carraway."  
It was Hamlet's turn to have wide eyes as they stared at him, shock and amazement clear on their face.  
" _You_? _You're_ Mr. Carraway?"  
Nick nodded, and the youth's expression turned solemn as their voice was brought to a whisper.  
"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, sir."  
"It's alright. Thank you, though."  
"Pardon me if I'm wrong, but you seemed to really love him."  
"Love--?"

His eyes grew wide again. What in the world was this child talking about? You could be sexually attracted to the same gender, but to love them? It just wasn't possible, was it?  
"Sorry, did you not love him?"  
"I… I don't believe I did, no. I cared for him immensely, but love is something reserved for a man and a woman."  
"Mr. Carraway-- sir-- are you not queer?"  
"What? I'm queer."  
"Yet you feel love is only between a man and a woman."  
"Hamlet, sex can be between anyone. Love is different; men can only love women, and vice versa"  
"Well have you found a woman you loved?"

His thoughts passed to Jordan for a moment. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since their call. "No. I'm sure you're aware of what happened between Ms. Baker and I - although I suppose she's Mrs. Harrisford now. Have you found anyone at all?"  
"As a matter of fact, I have. She's why I'm here in New York. My Holly; as stunning as the stars and twice as bright! We've been exchanging letters for a long while, you know; all of three months."  
His expression grew tired. "It's almost as if the two of you are already married."  
"Precisely! I plan to become as big and wealthy as Mr. Gatsby, so that I can give her the world!"  
Clearly they weren't much a fan of sarcasm.

"Hamlet. I'm sure your family is worried about you if you came here all alone. Find this girl and bring her home with you, but don't stay in New York; it rots people's souls."  
"My family doesn't want me, Mr. Carraway. I'm sure you understand."  
"Then start over somewhere else, just don't live here. It'll ruin you. You saw what it did to Gatsby."  
"I did, but I'm not hi-"  
"Then look at what it did to Daisy, or Tom! Bad habits and intentions only get magnified here."  
"But-"  
"Look at me! I'm so goddamn tired of living after two years of the bullshit in this city, that I'm only here to say a final goodbye before I go home to my goddamn _coffin_ of an apartment, and take enough downers to kill a fucking horse! Do you _want_ to live like this Hamlet? Do you?!"

He stopped only after seeing the hurt and fear in the youth's expression, tensing up slightly. This had been entirely his fault.  
"I'm sorry, I… I get very passionate about this sometimes."  
"I see…"  
"I should go." He started to walk away, then, as an afterthought; "Hamlet, you're a good kid. I'd hate to see someone like you corrupted by this city, so please: at least _consider_ leaving once you find Holly."  
"I will. Thank you, Mr. Carraway."

Alone again. Alone in that stuffy box of an apartment. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with a bottle of pills. He'd been told to take two every night before bed to help him sleep, but they'd very quickly made him feel ill.  
If two made him feel like that, then five should be enough to kill him, right? He took it with a glass of water.  
He had time before it would kick in. So he pulled out his typewriter one last time.

_To a world that doesn't care, I bid you_ _goodnight._

_-N. Carraway_

He placed the sheet at his bedside table, and closed his eyes.

Harsh sunlight. His eyes barely opened. The world around him was grey.  
Had it not worked?  
His body felt sluggish and weak as he dragged himself out of the bed.  
How was he still alive?  
He lurched into the main room to spot the bright gold marker of a telegram on the floor in front of the door.

_To one Mr. Nick Carraway, I'm truly not sure if you'll ever have the chance to read this, but I wanted to say thank you again. I'm glad you cared. I'm glad I care._

_Hamlet Carroway_

He collapsed to the floor, and he cried.


End file.
